Prisoner (Werewolf Marines) (25 page)

DJ wasn’t his alpha. But his alpha had
refused him release. There were no pack traditions that covered the
proper behavior for this situation, since it never fucking
happened. But DJ could never respect himself again if he turned his
back on Match. He was a wolf in pain. And he had no one else.

To be absolutely certain he hadn’t
misunderstood, DJ sent Match an image of himself putting his
forearm around Match’s throat and snapping his neck, and Match
slumping lifeless to the sand.

Match sent him a firm negative. For a second,
DJ was relieved. Then Match sent a competing image: DJ shifting,
then tearing out Match’s throat in a spray of blood.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” DJ muttered.
“Seriously, you want the hunter’s death?”

DJ didn’t understand how Match could know
that was the ancient tradition, when his fuck-up of an alpha had
undoubtedly never instructed him and Match wouldn’t remember it if
he had. Some ancestral wolf memory, DJ supposed. In the unusual
event that a modern alpha had a pack member ask for release, they’d
plan some painless drug overdose, and the pack member would write a
suicide note so the alpha wouldn’t go to jail. That was the new
way.

The hunter’s death was the old way. Wolves
killed deer by tearing out their throats, and fed the meat to their
pups. The hunt was life, provided by the death of the deer. The
hunter’s death turned the prey’s fate upon the hunters, to
symbolize the final turning of the wheel from life to death. It had
been considered the most meaningful and dignified way for a wolf to
die. But it was an ancient ritual, no longer enacted in modern
times.

Match shoved the image of the hunter’s death
at DJ, fierce and demanding, almost daring him to refuse. Then he
lay down in the sand, rolled over, and presented DJ with his
throat.

“All right,” DJ said, or tried to. The words
choked him, and Match couldn’t understand them anyway.

DJ removed his rucksack, weapons, and helmet.
Trying not to think too hard about what he was about to do, he
shifted.

Lechon felt much more confident that he was
doing the right thing. Match was a wolf in need of help that only
Lechon could provide. Lechon would give him the peace that he
deserved.

Lechon shielded himself from the pack sense
so he wouldn’t feel what he was about to do. Then he pounced on
Match, got a good grip on his throat, and tore.

Hot blood spurted into Lechon’s mouth,
sprayed across his eyes, and drenched his fur. He shook his head,
sending drops flying. The metallic, meaty smell overwhelmed Match’s
scent of sulfur and smoke. Match struggled instinctively, but could
barely even lift his head. Blood soaked into the sandy earth
beneath his body.

Lechon cautiously opened himself to the pack
sense. He didn’t feel any pain from Match. Shock had numbed him, so
he only felt weak and cold. He knew that he was dying and that it
was by his own choice, but he was frightened and lonely. He wanted
his pack.

Lechon lay beside him, sharing his body heat
and presence. No wolf should die alone. He nuzzled Match, then
began to lick his face. Match’s loneliness and fear eased with
every swipe of Lechon’s rough tongue. The pack sense faded as Match
grew weaker, but before it slipped away completely, Lechon felt him
drifting into a soft, warm, peaceful darkness.

Match shuddered, then stopped breathing.
Lechon moved away from the wolf’s body.

DJ crouched on the sand, his mouth and throat
coated with sticky, coppery blood. He spat several times before he
remembered his canteen, then grabbed it and rinsed his mouth. The
canteen was nearly empty before the water ran clear. But DJ could
still taste blood.

He scooped up a handful of earth and stuffed
it into his mouth. It was bitter on his tongue, gritty against his
teeth. The powdery texture threatened to choke him, and he quickly
spat it out. But after he rinsed his mouth again, all he tasted was
dirt.

Better than blood,
he thought.

Then DJ remembered Echo, and the mission. He
had to go find her. She must be wondering where he was. She might
need his help.

He knew that, but he couldn’t make his body
obey. He was shaking all over, curled into a ball with his forehead
on his knees and his arms wrapped around his legs. His mind was
stuck on a loop, circling from the taste of blood to the taste of
dirt to the sensation of Match’s flesh tearing in his teeth to the
tickling of Match’s fur beneath his tongue.

“DJ!” Echo shouted. “Look out!”

DJ dove forward and rolled. He looked back
and saw Echo slam into a blonde woman, knocking her off her
feet.

Amber. The last wolf. The one whose touch
could kill.

DJ leaped up and aimed his dart gun at the
struggling women. He hesitated momentarily, unable to get a clear
shot at Amber, then realized that it didn’t matter if Echo got
tranquilized. It wouldn’t hurt her, and Amber was the last enemy.
DJ took his best shot.

A few seconds later, both women lay in a limp
heap. DJ cautiously grabbed Amber by the back of her shirt and
yanked her aside.

Echo was sprawled on the sand, her chest
heaving as she desperately tried to breathe. Air whistled in and
out of her throat. A blotchy rash was spreading across her face. In
the seconds it took for DJ to grab an EpiPen and inject her through
her jeans, her breathing got noticeably more labored.

Echo was conscious, her eyes focused on DJ
beneath her rapidly swelling eyelids. She had to be so frightened.
He took her hand. It felt clammy, and she didn’t grab back.

“Hold on, Echo,” DJ said. “The shot should
start working any second now.”

Wait a minute to see if they get better,
inject them again if not, then rush them to a hospital,
DJ had
recited at the briefing.

Fuck that.

Echo could die if he waited, but DJ had never
heard of anyone dying from an overdose of adrenaline. He injected
her again, then lifted her over his shoulders and set off for the
base at an all-out run.

He couldn’t hear her breathing over his own,
but he could just barely feel it. He didn’t have enough breath of
his own to encourage her, but he held her tight and hoped she’d
take some comfort in that. DJ felt like he was running as fast as
he could, but maybe he could go faster. He pushed his body till his
lungs burned and a stitch knifed through his side, but it was worth
it. He’d barely been running for ten minutes before he spotted the
hidden entrance of the base.

“I’m all right.” Echo sounded completely
normal. “Put me down.”

DJ slowed, unable to quite believe it. He
wanted to ask if she was sure, but he couldn’t get enough air to
speak.

“Really,” Echo said. “Stop running.”

He skidded to a stop. Echo slithered out of
his grip and leaped down, landing on her feet.

The rash and swelling had vanished, and she
was breathing normally. It was as if he’d imagined the entire
crisis. But though he didn’t see any wounds, blood was smeared all
over her clothes and skin. DJ didn’t remember it being on her when
he’d picked her up.

Nothing made sense or felt real. He couldn’t
trust his own eyes. And that meant he couldn’t completely trust
that Echo was all right.

“Was the blood there before?” DJ asked at
last.

Echo looked perplexed, then her forehead
creased in worry. “Yes, DJ. You were already covered in it when I
found you. Is any of it yours?”

“No. I meant the blood on you.”

Echo glanced down. “Oh. It got on me when you
carried me, that’s all.”

“You were dying.”

“The reaction wears off fast.” Echo didn’t
even seem upset. “Of course, five minutes of not breathing is
plenty to kill you if you don’t have the antidote handy.”

Amber had nearly been on top of him. Echo had
risked her life for him as surely as if she’d taken a bullet meant
for him.

A wave of dizziness swept over DJ. At first
he thought it was relief, but black spots started to float across
his field of vision. He hurriedly sat down and put his head between
his knees. The last thing Echo needed was for him to pass out.

“DJ!” Echo knelt beside him. “You
are
hurt!”

“Just tired.”

“Let me check.”

She unstrapped his body armor, then ripped
off his shirt. DJ wanted to tell her that he’d know if he’d been
hit, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure. He could barely feel her hands
as she ran them over his head, then started prodding at his ribcage
and belly.

“Does anything hurt when I touch it?” Echo
asked.

“I can’t tell.”

Echo’s hands went still, one flat on his
stomach and one at his spine. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“
You
need to go to the hospital.
You’re the one who nearly dropped dead ten minutes ago.”

“We’ll both go.” She helped him to his feet
and put her arm around his shoulders, supporting him.

There was nothing DJ wanted more than to lean
on her, but he forced himself to step away. “I want to sleep in my
own room. If you help me in, they’ll think I’m in bad shape and
keep me overnight.”

“You
are
in bad shape.”

“Only in here.” He tapped his head.
“Metaphorically speaking. I don’t have a head injury. That I know
of.”

That didn’t seem to reassure her. “DJ, what
happened?”

“Let me tell you later, okay? Right now I
think I’d better concentrate on keeping it together.” He lifted his
chin, straightened his back, and tried to look like he wasn’t going
to collapse at any second. “If I start acting weird, remind me that
I’m still in combat. That should keep me going for a while.”

“You won’t need to keep it up for too long.
If you’re not hurt except for your arm, they’ll treat that and take
your report. Then you can go. A couple hours, max.” Echo must have
read in his expression that a couple hours was way too long. “Let’s
tag team them. I’ll report while you’re being treated. Maybe we can
get it down to one hour.”

“Okay.”

DJ couldn’t believe how unaffected she
seemed, after she’d nearly died. She was so together, and he was
coming apart. Maybe she had delayed reactions. Or maybe she was so
used to almost dying that it didn’t bother her any more. Come to
think of it, he could’ve died when Guadalupe had nailed him, and
that hadn’t bothered him. It was only Match…

They walked for few more minutes, and then
the doors of the base slid open and a bunch of medics and guards
ran out, ready with stretchers and guns. DJ realized that they must
have seen him and Echo on hidden cameras.

“Echo got tagged by Amber about fifteen
minutes ago,” DJ said. “I gave her two shots of adrenaline.”

“DJ got tagged by Guadalupe,” Echo said. “His
right arm. The blood’s not his. Check him for head injuries and
internal injuries.”

Mr. Dowling and Dr. Semple met them at the
hospital. Echo sat on a bed and gave a crisp report while a doctor
examined her and gave her a shot. Another doctor checked DJ over
and told him he needed to get an MRI.

DJ remembered Echo’s tag team suggestion.
“Can I take a shower first? While she reports?”

“No,” said Mr. Dowling.

“Yes,” said Dr. Semple. “I’d prefer not to
get blood all over my MRI.”

To DJ’s relief, Dr. Semple won that battle.
He was escorted to a shower that, from the looks of it, was
normally used for decontamination. But he wasn’t fussy. He just had
to get the blood off him. He washed it away, rinsed out his mouth
with water, and then scrubbed it out with liquid soap. It didn’t
help. When he washed out the soap, he felt nauseated from the drop
or two he’d accidentally swallowed, and he still tasted blood.

He got into the clean clothes they’d provided
and walked back in. Spine straight. Still in combat. He could do
this.

A medic led him to the MRI room. When DJ had
gotten MRIs after he’d been blown up, they’d felt excruciatingly
long. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but it took all his willpower to
lie still for an hour, not moving a single muscle. After he’d come
out of the first few exhausted and drenched in sweat, the doctors
sedated him for the rest.

It occurred to DJ to warn the medic, but if
he was sedated they’d make him stay at the hospital. He decided
that he’d prefer to be stressed. But once he was in the tube, the
tremendous racket of the machine barely muffled by his earplugs, he
had no impulse to squirm around. He lay still, feeling distant and
numb. Barely any time at all seemed to pass before the medical
technicians slid him out of the tube and told him he was done.

When he returned to the hospital room where
Echo, Mr. Dowling, and Dr. Semple waited, Echo was done with her
report.

“Just fill them in on what you did,” Echo
said. “I want a shower too.”

Echo vanished as DJ began his report. A
doctor gave him a shot of local anesthetic and confirmed that
Guadalupe had torn out a piece of his biceps. With perfect timing,
she stuck a huge needle in his arm and drained the trapped blood
just as DJ got to his account of how that had happened.

Echo’s shower set a speed record. She was
back, in clean clothes and wet hair, about five minutes after she’d
left. She listened as DJ told the story he’d decided on while he
was in the shower.

“Match jumped me while I was a wolf,” DJ
said. “I’d shifted to see if I could scent anyone. I don’t have my
strength in wolf form, and he was on top of me before I could shift
back. I had to kill him, or he’d have killed me.”

Angry as he was at the pack, he couldn’t rat
them out for protecting Match. Ultimately, the fault lay with the
fucking lab that had kidnapped Emmett, had been responsible for the
deaths of his wife and daughter, and had made poor dying Agent
O’Donnell an offer that he probably hadn’t fully understood.